"The House of Dolls" by Catriona Mowat

The House of Dolls

by Catriona Mowat

It was the middle of the night when the sound started. A faint tapping as someone walked over the hard wood of the stairs, building to resounding bangs that shook the very foundations of the house as the movement came closer. The others slept on, their rooms silent and dark, but I was awake. Wide-eyed and shaking, I stared at the door of my room, pulling the covers up to my chin with stiff hands. 

Someone was coming. 

At my window there was movement. I felt the world shrinking around me as they found me with invisible hands. 

I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. 

It’s too late. The house has me now. 

***

“Cassie, be careful with that!” Mother called to me. The box was heavy, and it had slipped from my hands, but I was desperate to help Mother and Father move into our new house. It was bigger than the old house, with a turret roof that made me feel like a princess from my books. A small window in the turret caught my eye—a face pressed against the glass, pale with wide eyes staring straight ahead, not seeing me. 

A little boy. 

I could see their hand, like they were waving at something. I looked over my shoulder, trying to see what the boy was looking at, but there was nothing there. 

“Mother, who’s that?” I called, pointing at the window. She looked up to the house, shielding her eyes from the midday sun.

“What are you talking about, darling?” I looked up again and frowned. 

“There was a boy, just there.”

“It must have been your imagination, Cassie. The attic is locked and we haven’t found the key yet. There’s no one in there.” Mother walked into the house, leaving me staring at the window with the impossible boy. 

For days I wandered the house, looking for him, trying to find a way into the attic from the upstairs hallway. The long corridor had our bedrooms, bathroom, and two cupboards. Then there was the other door. It looked darker than the other doors, and had a picture carved into it—a house with a turret. Our house. On the wall of the house, an angry face was carved, a monster. I didn’t like it. It made me feel like ants were crawling on me when I looked at it. The dark metal door handle always felt warm in my hand, like someone had just let go of it, but the door stayed locked. I looked through the keyhole a few times, but it was so dark I couldn’t see anything. One day I knocked on the door.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?”

I heard a noise, shuffling and breathing on the other side of the door. Then a scraping sound, the clink of metal. Something hit my foot. 

A dark iron key rested against my slipper. 

I opened the door. 

Up another flight of stairs, I stepped into the attic. The small window was ahead, a small chair sitting in front of it. The chair was empty. 

Turning around, I saw it. It was beautiful. Taking up a wall of the attic, a huge dollhouse that looked exactly like the house, down to the small window in the turret of the attic. At the side I looked for a clasp, and pulled the front of the house open. Every room was there, and even the furniture looked the same as ours. In my bedroom, I saw him. A doll sat in my room. It was the impossible boy from the window.

“How did you get here?” I picked him up, looking at him. His face, hands and legs were porcelain, his face painted onto the delicate white surface, but his body was soft, poseable. His glass eyes, blue and wide, stared at me, like he was scared. His mouth was open, screaming. I felt a tremble in my hands. 

“What’s wrong?” 

He didn’t reply.

“Come with me, then. I’ll keep you safe.” Bringing him with me, I went downstairs to fetch Mother and Father. 

“Cassie, I don’t want you playing up there until we’ve had time to look at it,” Father warned. Mother took the doll from my hands. 

“And this needs to be washed before you can have it. We don’t know where it’s been or for how long. I’ll give him back when he’s ready.” My bottom lip quivered.

“But Mother, I said I would keep him safe!”

“He won’t be in any danger from me, you’ll get him right back. Now, off to bed with you.”

I fell asleep that night dreaming of dolls with screaming faces. When I woke, the little boy doll was sitting at the end of my bed, watching me. 

The next morning, we all felt unwell. Mother and Father were slow, stiff, like they were moving underwater. My chest hurt, like something was sitting on it, and my skin prickled. 

“It’s probably a virus,” Mother and Father said as they stroked my hair with stiff fingers. “We just need a good sleep.”

When nighttime came again, I heard it. A strange noise, tapping, like heavy shoes on wooden floors downstairs. Someone was in the house.

I crept down the hallway, staying close to the wall as I made my way to the room where my parents slept. I could see two lumps in the bed where they lay.

“Mother?” I whispered. “Father?” 

They didn’t hear me. I moved closer, putting my hand on Mother’s shoulder. It was soft. Too soft.

Whipping back the covers, I screamed. The painted porcelain faces, hands and soft bodies of Mother and Father stared back at me.

Dolls.

The steps moved closer, and I saw the door swing open from the corner of my eye. My skin hardened to porcelain as I looked at the face of the impossible boy. My eyes turned to glass, unseeing. 

The house has me now.